Than all your caves deep-sphered in Ocean’s quiet. I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure: I would not change this flexile, warm existence, Though swept by storms and shocked by Jove’s dread thunder, To be a king beneath the dark-green waters.” Still moaned the humid lips, between their kisses; “We have no love. O love us, we who press thee!” And came in answer, thus, the words of Hylas: “My love is mortal. For the Argive maidens I keep the kisses which your lips would ravish, Unlock your cold, white arms—take from my shoulder The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses. Let me return: the wind comes down from Ida, And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber, Will fret to ride where Pelion’s twilight shadow Falls o’er the towers of Jason’s sea-girt city. I am not yours—I cannot braid the lilies In your wet hair, nor on your argent bosoms Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices. Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being, Your world of watery quiet:—Help, Apollo! For I am thine: thy fire, thy beam, thy music Dance in my heart and flood my sense with rapture: The joy, the warmth and passion now awaken, Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleeping. O leave me, Naiads! loose your chill embraces, Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining.” But still with unrelenting arms they bound him, And still, accordant, flowed their watery voices: “We have thee now, we hold thy beauty prisoned— O come with us beneath the emerald waters! We have no loves; we love thee, rosy Hylas. O love us, who shall nevermore release thee: Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cradle Far down on the untroubled sands of ocean, Where now we bear thee, clasped in our embraces.” And slowly, slowly, sunk the amorous Naiads; The boy’s blue eyes, upturned, looked through the water, Pleading for help; but Heaven’s immortal Archer Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his forehead, And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated, So warm and silky that the stream upbore them, Closing, reluctant, as he sunk forever. The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros. Argo was tugging at her chain; for freshly Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows. The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors, And up the ropes was heaved the snowy canvas. But mighty Hêraclês, the Jove-begotten, Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander, Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys Tossed o’er an urn, was all that lay before him: And when he called, expectant: “Hylas! Hylas!” The empty echoes made him answer: “Hylas!” * * * * * [Illustration: THE HIGHLAND CHASE.]